


St. Calvin told me not to worry about you...

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Author is trans, Coercion, Crying During Sex, Cunnilingus, Edging, Extreme Issues of Consent by Nature, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied Violence, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Not Safe Sane or Explicitly Consensual, Power Imbalances, Prison, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trans Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Withdrawn Consent, dream romanticizes getting thrashed, emotional distress, fucked up relationship dynamics, fucking but religious, hate sex?, pleasure and pain as punishment, they're both definitely in the wrong here, touch starved, yeah I listened to saint bernard on repeat while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Boredom and isolation are hells worse than any penance Dream could ever endure, so naturally he does everything-everything- he can to stave it off.Even if it means convincing the warden to fuck him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sam | Awesamdude
Comments: 13
Kudos: 160
Collections: Anonymous





	St. Calvin told me not to worry about you...

**Author's Note:**

> Ye I won't lie the backbone of this is like a certain flavor of religious overtones, allegories and weird effed up metaphors that turn this into some sort of art film piece by the end of it. 
> 
> I saw the dream/sam stuff and said ye, I'll be taking that thank you very much
> 
> (Just pretend this exists in some weird liminal space of canon and that Tommy hasn't died yet so Sam has no reason to like absolutely and completely wreck Dream's shit in this ~~yet~~ )

The first time he gets the idea, it's about a week into imprisonment. Stuck in a box with limited stimulus started to eat at him in... extraordinary ways. After all, it's not like there was a whole lot he could do besides the same few things over and over and **over.**

The clock always ticked on by, and he found that for the most part, it was never fast enough, never speeding through _forever_ quite to his liking. Creeping slower and slower until the ticking droned into the same long fucking note and he'd throw the clock in the lava just to see the warden fetch him another. 

Just to see another face, just to know he's real. Just to remember what other voices sound like when they ring in his ears- a refresher for when he'd sit against the wall, stare at the ceiling and just think and think-

He thinks he's desperate. Not the kind of desperate that particularly wants to get fucked two ways to Sunday by the very warden that holds him here, no. Not exactly. He's just- well, he's just _thought_ about it.

Thought about how he could use it, and maybe, just maybe, he's also desperate in the way that his imagination has started to wear ultrathin. Conjuring up the same bland scenarios had lost its flavor by the twentieth day. 

It had all but disappeared by the fortieth.

So, logically, desperation led him first to pain and then to pleasure. 

That first day he'd confessed every deed to the warden with a grin just to get a fist to the face so that by the second, he'd commit the roughness of those hands to memory. He committed Sam's self righteous anger to religion, sanctified it in the hopes of having it greet him again. He got lucky a few times, but never enough for it to really stick.

It's how he's ended up not remembering the first instance he stooped to the white hot sin of sweat slicked skin against scratchy fabric, pressing his face into the crook of his arm, always biting down to stop himself from shouting. 

As if it mattered. As if there was anyone to even muffle the sounds for besides his own detached sense of self.

Even now he bites the junction between his thumb and his finger, spine curved, other hand shoved under the waistband of the starchy cotton uniform. 

If anyone had told him months ago that he'd be jerking off in an obsidian box thinking about getting his ribs kicked in, he'd have laughed it off as some weird kink. Now it's just a pastime. 

And god he's so close. Like an addiction it gets harder and harder to get the same hit every time. Like his brain's only ever pumping out less endorphins every time he does this, a twisted form of punishment that makes him arch his back and chuff around his own hand as he fumbles to work himself faster. Teeth sinking deeper, the tang of blood drawn.

He smacks his skull into the obsidian behind him with a crack that runs up and down his spine, chased to his groin with every rabbit fast beat of his heart. 

`"Dream?"`

The warden's voice crackles through the communicator.

He seizes like he's grabbed a live wire, every muscle tense and drawn, panting short whines that are shaped almost like the syllables to spell out words, a name, everything concrete that spills into desperate, pathetic noise. The indicator flash of the communicator on his left wrist pings out of the corner of his eye. 

He clenches his eyes shut and elects to ignore it. It's set to mute by default anyways.

`"Dream."`

The voice is sterner this time, and shit, he slips his fingers down a bit further and curves them straight into slick warmth, dragging them up hard enough to make his legs kick out at the electric jolt. 

_Just a bit more. Just a-_ he breathes the words against the stifling air, no longer biting his hand but gripping his thigh, fingers slipping on the fabric like he's trying to hold onto something. That same palm dragging up his stomach, shirt bunching up until hot skin kisses hotter air with no relief in sight. He bares his teeth as his hips roll and his stomach clenches and he keeps going.

He keeps going until he's grabbing at his own arm, like somehow it's betrayed him in its task. He carves bruises in the flesh as he holds it there, encourages his fingers to work faster as sweat tumbles in ticklish lines down his face, down his neck, down the backs of his thighs and he feels every boiling hot drop follow gravity.

Everything stays drowned out in a whining tone, or maybe it's just his voice leaping from his lungs, or that ring in his ears. The world itself threatens to ignite as he presses the pads of his fingers a bit firmer and bites off a shout at the stars he sees behind his eyelids-

"Dream, I've been trying to contact you for…" 

Something clatters and every scrap of that _something_ that had pushed him closer and closer to the edge evaporates in an instant. 

Eyes snapping open, he tugs his hand out of his trousers, scrubs it off with a few frantic swipes and sits up a bit straighter. All casual with his legs brought into a crisscross rather than splayed out like he works the day shift at a brothel.

He makes a show of checking the communicator on his wrist, dismissing the open voice channel with a flick across the screen.

"Sorry I didn't get- I guess I didn't get your message." He lies with an awkward grin. 

"That's- I just-" Sam clears his throat, stooping to pick up the clock he'd dropped. There's something almost breathlessly funny in the fact the tips of his ears are a darker shade of green.

"Well, it's nice to see you." Dream practically coos it, "Been awhile since you've shown up, right?" 

"It-- it has." 

Sam's gloved hands fiddle with the clock face, and Dream can tell that he is trying to avoid looking him directly in the eyes. He doesn't have to see his mouth behind that respirator to know it's twisted into some sort of frown.

The lulling silence is more awkward than it's ever been. 

Watching the warden flounder in it is a welcomed change to the impassive persona he normally wears. 

Shuffling his feet Dream moves to sit with a bent knee, wrist propped on it. Trying to disguise the fact he keeps wanting to shift his hips with every smooth rush of desire to just finish the fucking job. A mantra of _leave, go, hurry up_ , chanted in the back of his brain like never before. 

A part of him wonders if he's just getting that sloppy, that desperate. His eyes trail over Sam's rigid frame and he thinks. 

"So-" he drags it out, "I'm guessing you were just stopping by to drop off the, uh, the clock then." 

"Yes!" Sam says it a bit too fast, a bit too high-pitched. He clears his throat and manages to throw that serious voice back on again, " _Yes._ This is the last one I'm going to give you. Don't burn it." 

"Understood." Dream rasps it, voice rough enough that it makes Sam seize up when he goes to hang the clock in the item frame. 

It's just a little lapse, a small thing, but even so Sam stays facing the wall long after the clock is safely hung. 

"Do you do that often?" 

"What?" Dream angles his head, fingers kneading into his kneecap, nails ground into flesh through fabric until he shifts his hips at the slight sensation.

"The…" The warden makes a crude gesture. 

"Right." Dream chuckles eyes drifting to the far wall, "yeah, it's uh- well I'm sure you know there's not much to do in here but think and… and write and think and write-"

Dream cuts his gaze back to the warden, "what? Are you going to tell me it's against the rules now or something?"

"No, it's not. It's just-" Sam crosses his arms, uncrosses them, and then raises a palm, "do you like… need anything?" 

Dream blinks, struck dumb by the audacity of the question to even hit the air.

Sam tries to course correct the fiery fucking crash of his own question, "I mean it just looked like-" he stumbles, "it sounded- it seemed like you were having a hard-" He takes a breath, "a _difficult_ time."

Sam raises a gloved palm, and Dream knows he's referring to the bite mark sitting bloody on his hand. He doesn't even have to look at Sam's ears to know the blush is only getting deeper. 

"What the hell-" Dream trails off with a laugh, head hung for a second, "why are you being so weird about it?"

"It never crossed my mind." Sam admits, blurting the sentence out. 

"Well, I'd hope you weren't sitting around imagining your only prisoner playing five finger shuffle."

"Look, I figured it'd be too…" Sam looks around. 

"Depressing?" 

"Something like that." Sam's back to his usual montone now.

"We all have to pass the time." He shrugs, staring past Sam towards the lava curtain, freedom just that much further away.

"I'll leave you to it then," Sam responds clinically. "Next time, pay attention to your communicator."

The warden turns, boots loud against the ground and something on his belt catches his eye, but more than that there's the barking fear that he can't let the warden leave; not yet.

"Actually," He calls, voice cracking, "uh, earlier, unrelated- I think I might have cracked my skull."

"Just respawn." Sam's voice is strained, not affording a glance over his shoulder. The lava isn't going down yet, so he knows he's at least snared Sam's interest.

Dream grimaces, looks to the side and summons up the shakiest portions of himself into a whole goddamn performance, "I… I don't really want to." 

Sam sighs.

"It's… it still hurts to die." He hates how easy it is to sound scared these days, words babbled as he waves his hands and stays in that corner. "You think it gets easier but… you're just- you end up worried that next one, that it'll be the last." 

Sam turns around and stalks forward until he's looming over him. "I have a regen on me. I didn't plan on wasting it."

Dream mumbles a half intelligible apology, gaze kept down but it's still sharp and the words mean next to nothing. 

He does this almost every time, the same song and dance. Sam shows up alone, and he finds some ridiculous reason to make him stay a little while longer, each attempt getting more pathetic than the last. He doesn't really care anymore and it's such a godforsaken notion.

Sam crouches down, pulling his gloves off as he crowds his space. 

Dream savors every second of it. Dragging lungfuls of air into the very darkest parts of himself if only to breathe it out in soft inaudible sighs when fingers card through his hair. Pushing his head this way and that to search for an injury. 

It's every electrifying sensation times a thousand. It's what it means to be alive, and he wonders how he could forget it, how everything on his own had become so grey and dull in comparison. How his own attempts at driving divinity back into himself ended in pale mimics and failures. 

This was bliss. 

He looks up at Sam out of the corner of his eyes and deliriously wonders for longer than half a second how alive he'd feel if he let the warden fuck him. If he convinced him to.

"You just bruised it." Fingers press into said bruise and he can't stop himself from grabbing Sam's forearm like a lifeline.

"Dream." Stern, Sam moves to pry his grip off. 

" _Wait._ Wait, wait-" Dream chants it like he's panting prayers, nonsensical in his ability to voice his thoughts.

" _Dream_ , I'm leaving now." Sam warns again, the edge of a snarl to his voice, ripping his fingers off. 

He grabs for him again, this time finding a palm, and he's surprised by how soft it is. 

Sam flinches back like he's been burned, hand tucked against his chest as he stares down. 

Dream doesn't hesitate to crumple forward throwing himself into the partial act, a groveling creature of stone and dirt. Playing the part of flesh and blood that sings to be anything but just the cold death of constant static. 

"Please." He snarls it, hating himself for every second, "it doesn't have to mean anything I just-" 

Footsteps retreat in a slow backwards crawl. He feels himself growing numb with each one that leaves him there against the stone, panting like a rabid animal.

"I just have to feel something, okay. I have to-" Dream laughs, breathless and hysterical, "I can't stand it, Sam- there's nothing here, there's nothing-" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"I promise it won't mean anything." He whispers it to the ground, back hunched, fingers pulled into fists to keep himself up.

**"What?"**

"If you fuck me." 

The silence is so loud that every tick of the clock sounds off like an explosion. The dripping lava screams. 

"...Why?" 

He thinks it's progress that the warden hasn't booked it by now. He thinks it's progress that he hasn't drawn his favored blade and shoved it straight through his skull.

"I have to know I'm alive." He breathes and hates that it's too close to the truth. 

"No." Sam shakes his head, " _No_ , the isolation of this cell has obviously been getting to you in an unproductive way. You're- I'll get Bad to bring that plant or-"

"You can't tell me you're not…" Dream trails off, titling his chin up to look Sam in the eyes, "you can't tell me it's never crossed your mind for even a second since you put me here."

"Is that what you think?"

He doesn't have to see the scowl on Sam's face to know it's there.

Dream doesn't answer, he just hardens his gaze into something defiant and lets a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. Molds himself back into all those little things that the warden thought he'd beaten out of him a long time ago. 

The warden glances towards the lava once, and when he swings his head back around, Dream knows he's taken the bait. 

Or maybe it's just something that was bound to happen, like the collision of binary stars. All that screwed up sense of attachment on both their ends forced into closer and closer quarters, it was bound to end in a fucked up kind of chemistry.

Boxed into the corner now he stares up at Sam with a quirked brow, hands sweaty and pulse singing in his ears. Sam crouches down, but doesn't move for a long moment, eyes flickering over his face until Dream feels his confidence waver and his lips bend ever so slightly in a frown, breath drawn to make words that never come-

It seems the warden's penchant for being pragmatic extends to just about everything he does because without ceremony Dream finds a hand shoved down the front of his pants. Another forces him back into the corner, thumb hooked harshly into the hollow of his collarbone. 

He stares down open mouthed, voice stolen, hands flying up to reach for an anchor of their own volition because he really didn't expect it to be that easy. 

He didn't expect it to be that fast. He didn't expect it to be like plunging into a pool of freezing water, all of it a teeth shattering crash into shock. 

He'd forgotten how touch felt, and it's such a stupid thing to forget that he hadn't even considered that the memories of it had shriveled up in his head even before the prison. Because dodging attachments came with dodging intimacy. 

He'd forgotten how it felt to lose control the moment someone's hand graced his skin, how he'd throw trust down like poker chips and gamble on the hopes it wouldn't hurt him. 

He scrapes his fingers along the wall, grinds his elbows into the obsidian for support and parts his teeth on rushed pants. He thinks it should be impossible to forget something like _this_.

"Slow down-" Dream rasps, "you- you're gonna-" 

"I didn't stay to go slow." Sam deadpans, the obscene sound of fingers abusing slick flesh echoes with every white hot pulse from his clit to the top of his head, all the way down to the tip of his toes. 

All on repeat like a mad dash for his nervous system until it's happening so fast it eats him up from the inside out, a star imploding on itself every millisecond. 

He's never slammed into an orgasm so fast in his entire goddamn life. Cheeks flushed red, jaw hung open on hitched sounds. His knees suddenly become magnets trying to smack against each other as fast as possible, but they can't and the warden's hand leaves his collarbone just to push at his thigh.

Dream finds himself writhing against the grip, snarling as he comes down from the breathless high. 

The warden doesn't give him a reprieve.

Head lulling, he paws at Sam's arm, and when that doesn't work he grabs at the straps of leather armor, shoving and pushing, until he's punching with sloppy fists at every pressure point he knows. Trying to tap out in all the ways he can because it's gone from more than enough to too much in a blink-

His eyes roll in the back of his head and his efforts are cut off with a groan. All that warmth, the proximity, the feel of someone else taking up space against him.

Prolonged touch starvation takes every familiar sensation to torture.

"Breathe." 

Reminded by the word, Dream gasps shallow breaths. Spine curved, forehead pressed against something solid, fingers grip the back of his neck. A thumb brushes over the jump of his jugular vein and sweeps up under his jaw to push up into the soft underbelly of his chin.

"Fuck…" Dream stutters it out, the curse morphed into something weak and pitiful.

Sam moves away and it's like the earth losing its sun. 

He blinks lazily up and wonders if he can let himself believe that the warden is on par with a biblical god for the rapture he sowed, or if perhaps that's too grandiose a gesture. Something addled by the clang of pleasure echoing from his skin down to the marrow of his bones. 

Dream knows he should hate him, hate him the same way that he knows Sam does when he gazes down at him and sees only something to be prescribed the daily regimen of a monster.

"Get up." 

He refuses, only able to kick his ankles out across the ground and scrape his palms along the obsidian. His legs feel like nothing but jelly.

"It wasn't a suggestion." 

"I…" Dream wheezes, chin tucked to his chest as he licks his lips and drags his hands close. Twisting them over the planes of his stomach, guarding that hollow sensation that eats away at him from the inside even in the aftermath of the thing he fucking begged for. 

He hates it. 

He hates the way Sam grabs him by the collar and throws him to his feet. Hates how he sees his own face reflected in the shiny plastic of the warden's mask for just a second. Hates the hot prick of tears that burn incorrigible lines from the corner of his eyes to the bottom of his chin. 

Vision blurred against his will into blacks and oranges, he's forced down by the shoulders to sit on a wooden chest. 

He steels his gaze into a glare shot down at the shiny leather of Sam's boots. 

"Sit at the edge." 

He doesn't move. 

Hands hook behind the back of his knees and drag him forward until his ass is half on the edge of the seat, and he leans back to catch himself on instinct. 

He's left at an angle that doesn't exactly register in his head until he sees Sam kneel between his legs. Dream's face goes slack, limbs stuck, mind stuttering to comprehend the hands that trail up his thighs to dip under a waistband.

He knows his heart shouldn't beat that fast at the slide of knuckles against his hips, that his stomach shouldn't knot itself to the point of pain at the touch and that the roots of his teeth, the bed of his nails- they shouldn't beg and cry for something to claw and bite until it all goes the fuck away. 

He's not about to admit defeat though. So he reaches forward, fingers determined where they find the clasps of the respirator on the warden's face and he loosens the buckles. Feels the way Sam hesitates as the mask is pulled off and the contraption clatters to the ground. 

Sam only glances up at him once, eyes dark, rings of gold floating in them, mouth set into a thin line. A silent challenge floats between them. One expecting the other to call it quits. They're both too stubborn for their own good.

A smirk shakes on Dream's lips as he leans back and raises his hips this time, letting the warden drag the bottom half of the prison uniform off, pants and all, right past his ankles.

The warden never wastes a second, biting a quick line up the inside of his thigh with sharp teeth that draw more blood than bruises. 

His knuckles turn white where he grips the edge of the chest, ankles scraping against the obsidian for a hold that never comes and he so desperately needs when hot breath ghosts over his skin and it's the only warning he gets. 

He thinks he shouts, or at least he has to believe so because suddenly he's out of air all over again and he's got one hand fisted in a handful of green hair while the other threatens to slip out from under him.

He can't keep his elbow locked like this, the damn thing giving out every other note that's tugged from his lungs like he's just the string section of a symphony and the warden's the conductor. 

He doesn't know if he wants to crawl up the length of the chest and get away. 

He doesn't know if he wants to tug the warden back by the hair or wrench him closer, he doesn't know if he wants to kick him, to swing a punch, to snarl and growl in his face and tear his throat out like a rabid fucking dog on the floor. He doesn't know if he wants to let a tongue, a measly thing like that, take him out that easily when it'd be easier to just get his skull bashed in. 

He's almost spilling over the edge again when fingers dig into the underside of his thigh and push it up. Angle changed, it rips a broken shout from him. 

The sort of sound you'd hear from a cat in heat taking the damn barbs, but instead it's just fingers and a thumb, the alphabet played out with a tongue like the warden's writing a love letter to eating out and he'd savoured every lesson just for this occasion.

He thinks this outcome is worse than the one he'd been gunning for. He thinks he'd rather be shoved face down into the obsidian until his jaw cracks. Left with only crushing fingers wrapped around his hips, hot breath and teeth pressed against his neck as he's fucked straight through the ground until he dies and respawns, only to be fucked again.

That would be easier to cope with, easier to comprehend, and he entertains every way to manifest that violence as he gouges his nails into the back of Sam's neck.

Even still, that desire never comes and he can't stop himself from hooking an ankle behind the warden's back, shifting to try and spread himself wider until his legs quake and he's dashing half formed words against the air before he can swallow them. 

He breaks strands of hair under his twisting grip, and it's the first reaction he gets out of Sam.

A shape of green and gold finally gaining sound and even that tiny, angry huff of a noise is enough to condense it all back into everything he hates.

He hates it.

God, he hates it so fucking much he'd do anything to hear it again.

So he twists harder, rips and claws, seeking to maim until hands finally crush his wrists and before he can come again Sam is looming over him, pinning both hands over his head.

"Do you want me to stop?" 

Dream bares his teeth as an answer, growls as a refute and elects to ignore the way his entire frame arches to get closer to whatever's left taking up space between his legs. 

"I need an answer." 

"Yeah. Yes… I-"

" _Yes_ as in you want me to stop or _yes_ as in you're going to give me an answer?" Sam's question hits the air colder than steel, leg knocking against the inside of his thigh, kicking the knee out a bit further. 

It makes his stomach turn and he turns sweaty wrists in the crushing grip.

 _"Stop."_ He whispers, eyes stuck on the ground. He's curious what the warden will actually do.

Sam's grip slackens immediately and Dream tugs out of it. 

Sitting slumped against the wall now, he's just a thing left to vibrate with malice, brimming with something he always mistakes for life. All he has left is a glare.

"Al… alright. Okay." The warden's demeanor starts to shatter and he steps away, face jumping with confliction, lips moving on false words.

Dream thinks if the warden starts apologizing, he'll find a way to cut out his tongue.

Instead Sam wisely opts for silence. He drapes those scratchy cotton pants over Dream's lap like it's a mercy. Affording the action the sort of reverence given only to reliquaries in dusty churches. 

Dream bristles, fingers bunching in the fabric. 

He's not fragile. He didn't drop bombs with the destructive force of a thousand angry gods to be reduced to this. 

"Are you o-"

"Don't finish that."

Sam shuts his mouth with an audible click. Dream keeps his eyes down as he tugs his pants back on.

There's a clear bristling frustration in the warden now, a thing leaping with snapping jaws and tugging at the choke chain. 

"Did you get what you wanted?"

"Sure." Dream shrugs, elbows on his knees. "You want me to say yes?" 

Sam's fists clench at his sides, face bending a moment with an expression that almost looks hurt before flashing to nothing. 

Dream sighs, sniffing and wiping a sleeve over his face, dried tears sticky on his lashes as he looks lazily up at the warden. "I'm surprised you didn't just…" 

"What? Fuck you?" Sam spits it. The curse is all wrong in his mouth.

Dream laughs a single note before looking away, "...yeah." 

"I'm not some dog you get to rile up and let ravage you." 

Dream arches a brow, surprised by the venom, "I mean I- I have to say you're pretty close. Like functionally what's the difference?" 

Sam's brows pinch, plastic and metal creaking where his fingers bend around the respirator mask in his hand. 

"You're the warden, _Sam_. It's not like I could consent anyways." Dream drawls it out, eyes narrowed like a satisfied cat.

The implications are rather nasty, but he doesn't really care. Not when every part of him feels like an open sore kissing a live wire and he can still imagine the crushing grip of a hand on the meat of his thigh. 

He stares at the knuckles of the warden's grip and thinks.

Finally, Sam shakes his head with a huff, just a derisive little puff of air as he turns around.

Sam walks away and Dream drives his own bony knuckles into the pattern of bruises on his thighs.

He doesn't even realize he's made up his mind until he's one second sitting, the next standing. Ripping the clock off the wall only to smash it against the ground before Sam can even lower the lava. When it's not enough he throws it right past the warden's head.

Sam stops in his tracks but doesn't turn, not yet.

Shoulders heaving, the last thing occupying Dream's mind is the desire to be reserved. He doesn't care; he doesn't care that he's been scraped bloody until the ragged ground meat of his heart thuds away on his sleeve and he's more pathetic than even the lowly maggot that writhes in its house of rotten meat. 

More than anything he's pissed, every frustration frothing over in the shut lid pot of his boiling mind. He doesn't understand how the warden can be so fucking stupid that he completely misunderstands the concept of retribution.

Sam had beat him bloody before, back at the beginning, so he glares at the back of the warden's head and wonders what the fuck is the difference? 

They both know there's no place for mercy in this cell. 

There's only something vile and detested, an existence chock full of all the things he wants to spit and claw from himself but can't any more than someone could rip out a metastasized tumor. That in the eyes of everything he deserves to be that _thing_ left rotting in a box, half dead, half alive- thinking and breathing- knowing that he only ever did what was right; that he was always right.

He staggers forward to grind his heels into shards of glass only to hiss at the bite of pain. He wants and he wants, and he's consumed by the damnation of even wanting anything at all.

The metal of the clock gives a screaming hiss as it melts in the lava. The sign left behind on the item frame reads, _Do Not Burn_.

Sam whips around. "What is wrong with you?" 

"I need a new clock." 

Dream can see the very moment something in him finally snaps. 

He finds himself pinned, spine and skull colliding with the wall as two fists grab the collar of his shirt and hoist him up. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam snarls in his face.

He thinks it's been a lifetime since he's seen the warden show anything beyond a modicum of annoyance, a dash of mild anger among the stubborn sea of seriousness. This is unchecked, a bent and broken thing that stinks of patience finally worn thin, a sense of justice long burnt to a crisp. He can almost find satisfaction in the fact that the warden's losing his grip.

"I need a new clock." Dream repeats it, staring up into Sam's face. 

Sam's eyes narrow, face brought close until his nose nearly taps his own and the ghost of hot breath across his lips is nothing short of painful. 

"Why?" 

Dream can't stop himself from staring at the shape of white fangs behind Sam's lips, eyes flickering a dizzying line up and down as he licks his own and struggles to stand on his toes. 

"Because it's..." Dream trails off, eyes distant.

"I told you, I wasn't going to replace it."

"You say that everytime."

Sam lets Dream plant his heels back on the solid ground before he hangs his head with a sigh.

He finds himself still trapped by the warden's hands resting on either side of his neck, some facsimile of a lover's embrace. He abhors the way it chases sparks through his veins. He abhors the way he's never felt so small under it.

 _"Why?"_ Sam asks.

Fingers curl tight around the back of his neck, nails cut so harsh across skin that his breath hitches and he curls his toes against the ground, teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

"Because- I think…" Dream crosses his arms and shoves his hands up under his armpits. Curling in on himself while something eats at his intestines until the organ decides to flip and writhe and he'd let himself slide to the ground if Sam wasn't holding him up. "I think I need it. To stay sane… to remember- to I- I don't know-" He shrugs voice wavering, "to try and get better." 

"You don't." Sam's answer hits like a punch to the gut. "And this isn't about the clock." 

Dream swallows and asks sharply, "You think I don't know that?" 

"Then tell me why-" 

"Does it fucking matter?" 

He shrugs off Sam's touch before moving a few feet away.

"Yes." Sam stresses the word, "you wanted me to stay, you wanted me to…"

Sam's eyes flicker down the length of his body, answer enough. 

"I don't know." Dream sits back down on that wooden chest. Legs too unreliable to hold his own weight. Now that he's not close to the warden he feels confidence spilling back into his chest like an oil slick. "Maybe I was just bored."

"You were bored?" Sam gestures to his own head, tone clipped, "Sex isn't gonna cure whatever screwed up logic you've got telling you that this is supposed to be an enjoyable experience for you-"

"True… but you totally had a go at it." Dream all but purrs, flipping the odds until even though he's still the prisoner, he's the one on top.

Sam's lips thin and he looks away. 

"C'mon, Sam, you got on your knees and I wasn't even going to ask." Dream let's the smirk lay thick in his voice. "It had to be fun for you too, right? Something to pass the time while you're always keeping an eye on me? That's gotta be- yeah, I think that's a win-win." 

"I was performing a duty."

The words are a funny way for the warden to delude himself and the way he says it shoots heat straight to the tips of Dream's ears.

"Well..." Dream runs his hands down his face, covering the way it burns red, a bubbling laugh pressed between teeth bared in a false grin, "I guess I shouldn't have interrupted then." 

The only affirmation he gets is the sound of his own harsh breathing.

He watches intently as Sam's shoulders rise and fall at a similar pace, the way his temple jumps and the cut of his jaw tenses ever so slightly. 

"I dare you." Dream starts, fire kindled in his heart and his head that ignites every impulse to coax the situation into something more fitting, something much worse. Something he actually wants. "I dare you to take out all those little frustrations on me because it's- it's not like anyone gives a shit. You know they probably assume the worst about you anyways. The big, bad warden. _Serious Sam_." 

Dream deadpans the nickname, clicking his tongue before he angles his head and speaks, "remind me... if a prisoner gets raped in his cell and no one's around to hear it, did it ever happen?" 

Sam blinks, taken aback by the harsh accusation. "I didn't rape you." 

"And I'm not saying you did- or that you're going to, but the reputation of a warden is always going to precede you." 

Sam steps forward, one boot in front of the other brows pinched.

"I mean…" Dream scoots back on the chest, until his back hits the wall, "I could tell anyone who visits what you did or didn't do and maybe, maybe they don't believe me. But they'll think about it. They'll think about it every time they see you."

Sam looms over him, never touching, eyes narrow and voice thin, "I didn't hurt you. Not like that."

"Do they know that?" Dream angles his head, gesturing to the outside world. 

Sam tucks his chin to his chest, fingers grabbing at the respirator now strapped to his work belt. Twisting the metal, and the rubber, and the plastic in some attempt to snare himself a response.

"I'm only punishing you as much as you deserve." Sam affirms. 

He can feel that crippling sense of moral justice peeling apart layer by layer. 

"You shoved me in a box." 

"For your own good."

Dream arches a brow, "You beat the shit out of me."

 _"Once."_ Sam says.

"Yeah, 'once'…" Dream replies coldly. "Well, here's the thing. I _want_ you to hurt me. Because you and I, we both know you really want to- for what I did to Tommy? To Tubbo? To the whole server, right?"

Sam opts for silence, jaw clenched.

Dream continues, tone dark. "If you're actually going to break me, you've got to be more than just the schoolyard bully." 

"I'm not going to do that." 

For someone who says it with so much conviction he's still standing right between his knees, still staring down at him, and Dream wonders if there's a way to tell if a creeper's pupils are blown wide.

"It's for your own good." Dream parrots the phrase back, reaching forward to hook his fingers in the warden's belt loops to tug him closer.

"Dream-" hands grab his wrists, stopping him short of fully undoing any clasps. "Stop. Just let it go." 

Frustrated, Dream lets his forehead fall against Sam's stomach, air twisting through his throat like its cyanide and he can't stop choking on it. 

He wrenches his hands free and doesn't hesitate to try again. He gets a similar result and it's enough to make him flash his teeth and growl. Forced to sit there with vice grips around both wrists, the appendages pinned to the top of his thighs as Sam is forced to get down on his level to hold them there. 

The warden stares him straight in the eye, no indication that he has plans to let go. 

The touch scorches him and he feels heat radiate off the imposing form in waves. Enough to rival even the lava's constant radiation. It pools a nauseous anticipation just below his stomach until he aches and he bows his head, curves his spine just to pant against the air. 

"You thought I was just- that I'd let you do that?" Sam chastises, almost patronizingly, "you think I want you to…"

He thinks it's funny how just minutes ago the warden had laved his tongue against him like the sea does the shore and now the guy can't even get his lips to say suck, let alone cock. It makes him smirk but the amusement dies just as fast.

"Dream. I'm not going to play whatever game this is." Sam sighs, eyes shut for a second, "I'm not going to hurt you like _that_."

"What would make you?" Dream asks, genuinely curious.

Sam hesitates on the answer, moving closer until his face is inches from Dream's own, hand cupping the side of his jaw, the other sweeping strands of hair grown too long out of Dream's face.

"Change the question." 

It's an odd answer. 

He breathes a bit quicker, lips and teeth slightly parted as he finds himself drawn forward by the touch. Drawn forward by that same sort of curiosity that killed the cat, the same brand of it that cracked open Pandora's box and disobeyed the very will of the gods.

" _How_ \- how would you-" Dream stumbles over the question, nose brushing Sam's, eyes shut, a fist punched straight through his gut as he swallows his heart where it tries to leap off his tongue. 

He doesn't need to finish the question, the same way that the warden never needs to give him a response. 

It hurts. It hurts so much when his lips slot against the other's. It's too tender and undeserved and even the fangs that catch in his flesh are sharp but never draw blood, and fuck if it doesn't hurt that much worse. 

He feels and hears his teeth clack sloppily against the warden's when he tilts his head, ensconcing himself further in a messy impulsive mistake. After a few moments of it, he goes dizzy with the lack of air.

He breaks the kiss to gasp against the corner of the warden's lips. Eyes screwed so tightly shut the darkness explodes behind them. He pretends they don't sting at the corners all over again, pretends that when he opens them his vision isn't blurred by tears. 

In the aftermath he finally gets a sound from the warden besides quick breathing.

That telltale clack of buckles and clasps being undone hits the air.

Dream watches that work belt drop to the floor, pieces of armor following, every important item dragged with it all to lay on the stone. A vulnerability that makes him think… and consider. 

His chin is being turned up before he can really ponder it and he thinks it'll have to wait when he meets black eyes and gold pupils and they burn a hole straight through him. 

"You can tell me to stop." 

"I'm not pussying out." **Again** , Dream doesn't admit as he cuts the sentence from his lips and wonders if they're just as much of a lie as the warden's. 

Sam smiles weakly. "Interesting choice of words." 

Then they're right back to where they started. The air is so stifling he hardly knows the difference between bare skin or clothes anymore.

Palms and thumbs run up the inside of his thighs again and he deludes himself to the idea that he'd somehow be used to it. He bites back the urge to swing a fist when they meet in the middle and he hears the old tune of knees softly hitting stone. 

"Try to last a little longer this time." Sam says it with a dull twinkle in his eye that makes the whole situation that much more abhorrent. As if the warden is just brushing it off, out compartmentalizing everything that could ever hope to catch up to him and remind him of how utterly fucked up the situation is. 

It's honestly admirable at this point and he wonders how deep that particular rabbit hole goes. 

Not that the thought goes anywhere the moment pleasure shocks his brain again.

This time, Sam keeps a hand splayed out on Dream's stomach, right above that hollow space where pleasure builds and builds like how a nuclear reactor goes critical. 

For a little while, before he lets his head fall back, he stares at it. Curiously watching the constant weight of the warden's hand follow the ups and downs of clenched muscles as he rolls with the punches, sweat beading up to soak the thin layer of his shirt. 

Dream figures it out why it's there when his nails scrape the sides of the wooden chest and every muscle draws taunt- and Sam stops.

Sam fucking stops and Dream whines. Not just a little thing, but that harsh whimper a damn dog makes after it's been kicked in the ribs.

Meeting Sam's eyes with a glare the warden just stares, impassive and blank. Expectant. 

Oh no, he's not going to fucking beg. 

He stares defiantly back until the warden continues and he swallows back every whine and whimper thereafter. Chin shaking and jaw popping, he cracks open clenched teeth only to grind his molars harder, shake his head and anchor himself to the reality of his fate. Caught in the definition of edging taken to new heights. 

No matter how hard he twists his fingers in Sam's hair, how much he pleads silently for his body to just spill him over the fucking edge, the warden stops short every single time. Each time he only lets curses slip past his lips, all empty threats and snarls that sling spittle in the air. 

Stubbornness forged into a razor wire that slides across his skin. 

Even when he stops forming coherent thoughts, he doesn't beg.

The warden's fingers go from flat and impassive on his stomach to bunched in the fabric of his shirt, pushing and kneading into the flesh, a quaking sort of desperation all of their own. Dream takes solace in the fact that the warden, of his own demise, is breaking too. 

The hand grafted to his thigh finally slips off and he feels the warden let up. That sharp stinging pulse of pleasure dying down until frustration crackles in its place. 

Puffs of hot air roll against the sweat slick skin of his thigh, and Dream sits up straighter to look down at the warden. Slumped haphazardly and confused, Sam stays there between his legs, both hands limp in his lap, eyes dull, face flushed and breaths fast. 

Like a haggard disciple collapsed at the foot of a god. 

Seeking some sort of solace, some strange sanctuary, by making himself small and vulnerable in the process. It's an oddly domestic sort of scene made absolutely unholy by the way the warden's lips shine like sin.

They both sit like that until their breathing evens out. The warden looks for all the world like what he actually is, someone too young to be tasked with keeping a beast trapped in the heart of a labyrinth. 

He thinks if he cared enough to consider it, he'd find himself too young to be the minotaur in the equation.

Reaching forward, almost reverent, Dream cards his fingers through Sam's hair. Brushing unruly strands of the damp green curls behind pointy ears. A tenderness in its wake that eats at his insides and lances up his fingertips until it burns. 

Sam turns his head away, eyes slipping closed and frame shaking. A tremor Dream feels all the way up his calf where the warden slumps against it. 

"Don't."

Dream doesn't listen. 

He keeps pushing his fingers across the warden's scalp even when he slips off the wooden chest to get down on the same level. Hand moving down to rest at the side of the Sam's neck, Dream thumbs at the artery. Feels it jump beneath the skin as he snakes his other hand down to undo the buttons on the warden's trousers, force a hand past the waistband of his pants.

He feels that pulse leap and stutter, thumb moved to rest across a throat that jumps with a swallow and he considers the force it would take to crush the warden's windpipe.

Lips press softly against the side of his temple, nose brushing the sensitive skin until their foreheads brush and Dream clumsily shuffles his fingers over the warden's cock. 

Flicking his thumb across the head of it until a _stop_ is whispered firmly against his skin. He doesn't stop, he doesn't listen, and he aims for another whispered plea like he aims to one day see the sun and feel the grass beneath his feet. 

He aims for blind vindication and he lands out among the cold, heartless catch of the stars. 

And maybe that's why- maybe that's why he finds himself lost in the fervor of another frantic kiss, maybe that's why he finds himself being hoisted up a few seconds later. Maybe it's why when he catches the warden's eyes they're too dead, all glassy this time, lips just as flat.

Maybe it's why he finds his back pinned against the wall, maybe it's why he finds his ankles hooked behind the warden's thighs. Maybe it's why he grabs at the warden's shoulders and lets himself be dragged down onto the blunt spear of his dick.

Knocking his head back, his skull meets the wall with a thud, eyes tracing the ceiling as his insides fight the feeling of being too full.

He stares at the old pattern of obsidian with shaking pupils and lets a hiss boil up the length of his throat when the warden drags out those first few thrusts in slow motion.

He stares up and thinks he's here-- the thought gets cut off by his leg being hitched higher, the warden driving deeper and he clenches his eyes shut, chin brought towards his chest, air rushing past bared teeth. He presses his back flat against the obsidian and tries to think and breath and **fuck** , he knows he's here because he wants to be.

He doesn't care that it stings more than just his pride as he sloughs encouragments off his tongue until he's finally being used at a brutal pace, tossed like a fucking ragdoll because at least this lets him know he's alive.

The friction of fabric starts to burn at the inside of his thighs because of course, of course the warden didn't bother taking his trousers off. Like he's some cheap alleyway fuck and he supposes that's probably right. It's such a stupid thought that he laughs and then he cries- and fuck he doesn't know why because he shouldn't- 

He shouldn't but he does and he has no reason to--

Right?

He forces a bubbling note of laughter out only for it to crack and break too and he always forgets how much it hurts to genuinely sob.

How much it hurts to feel the collective pressure of a thousand anvils on his chest, shame burning up his throat and his eyes but never hot enough to evaporate the tears before they can fall, and it's so stupid and so pointless-

He shudders, fingers folded into fists, lips jumping into snarls between every moment he's forced to hitch his breath on a moan when the warden bottoms out. 

"I'm- god I'm sorry-- I'm- fuck- fhf- I-" Dream grates out and curls in, hands scrabbling for nothing, shaking apart at the seams. 

They're all meaningless apologies, holding less weight than even the air, and he just spills them anyway. Not sure what the fuck he even has to apologize for, but he feels like he at least owes the empty phrases to his own heart. The damn thing pounding so fast and so hard that it bruises his sternum and threatens to give out.

He keeps cutting the apologies from his lungs long after his voice crumbles into nothing but formless mantras. Speeding through syllables until it all slurs into nothing but noise, and then it's just sobs. Broken things that rattle like bits of iron stuck at the bottom of a tea kettle. Things that shouldn't exist at all.

It's a quiet mercy that the warden never looks him in the eyes.

Sam keeps his face buried in his shoulder. 

He can feel the sliding dance of sharp teeth over skin, of a phrase pressed into the junction of his neck over and over again.

He knows they're saying the same apology now. Some two person prayer, the stench and sound of sex disguising it.

When he finally comes a second time it's ugly and disastrous, a bomb detonated in his skull to white out his vision. Numb legs twitching as he shoves mindlessly at the warden, trying to claw himself away. All desperately useless attempts because he's trapped there, hands up under his thighs, a wall of a chest pinning him like some weak little bug.

After a few seconds he finds himself slumping into a lifeless daze, efforts lost and the world dulled to nothing. Reminding him of every moment he spends staring at the clock on the wall, watching the colors tick by until he's allowed to fake a smile when, and only when, the thing is split _exactly_ down the middle. Then he's right back to being nothing again. 

It's all of that but **worse** , and that dullness makes him hyper aware of what's happening, of what he's doing. Of the distant almost foreign sensation that there's something between his legs having a go at rearranging his guts.

Everything condenses like a collapsing star. Overstimulation smacking him so hard and so suddenly across the teeth that his jaw cracks open and he begs. 

He fucking begs and he debases himself into a lowly keening creature that pleads for the warden to stop. Over and over, horrible, things that spiral out into shouts until he's growling and snapping his teeth, and he's just a dog frothing and choking on its chain.

A hand smothers his mouth, fingers and sharp nails curved into the meat of his cheek, and he's glad for it. 

Glad for the way it forces his head to the side, skull pressed so harsh against the obsidian it might crack. That unrelenting palm locking his head in place until his neck strains and he's forced to stare off to the side at the rolling lava. Watch the way it bounces in his vision, losing contrast every second that ticks by and moisture warps his sight.

He deserves nothing less.

The warden doesn't stop.

Not even when Dream cries wetly into the hand clamped over his lips, all snot and tears, ugly broken sounds wrangled up his throat that he refuses to acknowledge as his own. All wrung dry and fucked out, and left in the wake of it.

He's not supposed to care; he's not allowed to care. He should be more than ecstatic that the warden is fucking him into the wall just like he wanted.

He wanted it. The thought grows sour as he clenches his eyes shut and arches his back, knuckles smacking the nearest hard surface until they weep red and he keeps his ankles locked knowing he could just as easily break free. He has to- he has to believe he can because knowing he can't isn't a luxury for him. 

The warden's hand slips off his mouth, fumbling for the wall just beside his head and Dream stares dumbly at it, watches the tendons jump, the skin shift as it's curled into a fist. 

The panting in his ear shifts to stuttered groans, the warden's teeth sinking into his flesh to stifle anything more. He feels the rumble of the muffled sounds echo.

Feels the way the warden tries to reign himself in, pulling back before he can fully draw blood, crunch through flesh and muscle and leave a nasty scar. Those fangs that could just as easily grind down through bone rest safe and useless against his skin and it's all just hot air fanned out in every huffed breath, every cut off whine.

He thinks he'd rather have them rip him apart and eat him alive. 

The thrusts grow frantic and harsh, snapping things that break him open under their weight and he feels how much it's going to bruise, can picture the nasty purples already stretched across pale skin. The warden slips into the throes of a desperate animal, a thing dragged by the horns down into the thoughtless depths of rutting until it's done.

Dream shoves his own wrist between his teeth to stop a muffled shout when the warden plows right through a last faltering orgasm that winds up falling into the wayside of something more pain than pleasure. It doesn't help that the warden proceeds to fuck him through it like if he does it hard enough he could reward himself by snapping his pelvis against the goddamn wall.

Hands clutch at his back, all shaking fingers wrapped up over his shoulders to find anchor holds in the tense flesh. 

Dream braces an arm against the wall, the other brought up to snake around the back of Sam's neck, nails scraping red lines down his cheek. He's brought down so hard on the warden's cock that he feels the beginning and the end of the world pop like sparks in his mind.

He's split in half when the warden finally comes. 

Right down the middle, half disgusted, half relieved. 

He wishes more than anything that he didn't wince when they'd finally separated. The both of them collapsed to their asses on the ground in the wake of it. Heads bowed and backs bent, not looking each other in the eyes. 

It's not fair, he thinks bitterly as he finally glances up and sees the warden's already tucked himself back into that persona, trousers buttoned. Already going about slipping that work belt back through the loops like nothing ever happened.

Dream hears the distant rumble of words, Sam trying to ask him something or other, but it falls on deaf ears. Dream's too busy looking down, smearing the sticky semen from his thighs onto his fingers and watching it glisten on his skin.

He looks on, numb and detached. Fingers slipping over one another because he can't seem to feel where they end or begin. So he stares and tries to focus a little harder.

The prickling discomfort at the nape of his neck makes him realize that they're _both_ staring at it.

Sam's scrutiny has him shifting his legs, reaching forward to grab his pants and try to tug them back on. Dream throws a defensive glare in Sam's direction and gets only one foot barely in before a sharp pain makes him double over. 

His breathing goes heavy with the sting of it, eyes unfocused.

He doesn't even think when he brushes fingers between his legs and pulls them away to see pinkish whites and reds.

He feels his lips bend, brow crumpling like wet paper before he can stop it. His shoulders heave only once, teeth chattered around just a single breathy note before he buries all of it and grows comfortably numb.

It's what he wanted. 

It's so _much_ of what he wanted, right? 

He wanted to hurt and the warden ripped him right open. He thinks the thought with a hysterical discomfort, face forced back into neutrality when it tries to bend again. He slaps his hand against the wall and tries to stand.

When he finally makes some progress his knees shake and his ankles wobble. His pelvis burns and each step is like getting stabbed. Even still, like a record scratching he keeps trying to hoist that one leg of his pants all the way up as he walks towards the lava.

"Dream." 

He stutters on the next step, feels fluid slip down his legs and he scrapes his fingers into claws against his thighs. 

Making a silent promise to himself if the warden says another word, he'll fucking kill him. He'll sink his teeth right through his throat until the incisors click in the middle and then some.

If he even hears him breathe, he'll cave that face in, smash those fangs into the back of his brain and he figures he'll get pretty far before the creeper part of him detonates. 

His arms shake with the quiet fury of the silence. He wants an excuse to prove his will isn't fucking broken. He wants it so bad. Just one.

But it never comes.

The cell stays quiet.

Dream walks straight into the wall of lava.

It's a small mercy that when he dies he respawns fully clothed. Fully healed and whole as he crawls his way out of that pool of water only to give off steam when the damp fabric hits the hot air. He gets to his feet and stands there, all shiny and new, smoking like the devil at a baptism.

The warden stares him down, armor strapped back on, respirator in place. The backdrop of lava forming a fiery orange halo around his frame.

"Welcome back." Sam says sarcastically, tone bitter.

Dream pretends like the voice doesn't make him flinch as he glares at some bright spot in the dripping lava past the warden's head. It's the same one he'd stared at when-

"I need a new clock." Dream spits the tired phrase like a robot. Successfully smothering his own thoughts.

Sam glares, unimpressed. Cold with a familiar hatred.

It's an upfront sort of kindness that the warden always has the decency to despise him to his face.

And maybe he can't quite meet the warden's icy glare, can't quite stop the shake of his frame, the weakness in his knees or the pinch of nausea low in his gut but at least he's still something. 

Some ruined sort of progress, some _thing_ that shook hands with a fool at the crossroads and convinced the naive bastard to sell his soul. 

The warden steps back behind the netherite barrier before raising it up, the bars stopping him from following. 

It's a triumphant thought that he doesn't even have to try. A part of him will always be following in Sam's footsteps now, no matter how far and how fast the warden runs for the rest of his miserable goddamn life. 

It won't matter if he ever leaves this cell. It won't matter if he ever gets to exact any sort of revenge. 

He's already there, caught in the shadows, the dark circles under Sam's eyes, branded in memories that can't be scrubbed out like blood and sweat can. Endless and immutable.

In the same way he'll always haunt the warden, the warden will always haunt him. It's a price he's willing to pay because he convinced himself that he knows how to handle ghosts, he knows how to handle pain, knows how to curb fears into cunning ruthlessness, just as he knows how to bend attachments into hate.

He watches the lava drip all the way back down and waits until the netherite barrier is finally lowered before he moves back towards that wooden chest. 

Lifting the lid an inch, he catches the metal card that comes tumbling out. 

It's not the warden's key, but it is an extra guard key he'd swiped off his belt.

Dream stares down at it as he sits and he waits, because he's not stupid enough to think the card will get him out. 

No, he only needs it to rope the warden back in because he knows this time, that item frame on the wall is staying empty.

Turning so he can curl up against the wall, he rests his temple against hot obsidian and tucks his heels up on the seat. Knees brought to his chest, he rocks the key card between his fingers and feels it slap against his shins in a steady rhythm. 

It's just one more thing to pass the time. Just another thing like the way he stares at the lava and hums a jagged tune, the way he disregards absolutely everything but the passing seconds that bring the warden one step closer to stomping back into the cell. 

An empty smile quirks up the side of his lips. 

He'll just have to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk how the hell id continue this but fuck it i might  
> It's like sort of got plot? And there's some ideas but also idk if anyone would wanna see me just writing out the fucked up power imbalance of this relationship


End file.
